Frostbitten
by fuzzybluelogic
Summary: Nightcrawler finds himself trapped in a dark world, seeking to rescue and bring home a much changed Iceman. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

BA…

The world reappeared in a swirl of violet smoke that lasted a quick breath before it disappeared once more.

…MF

The universe was suddenly upside down. He was only vaguely aware of his perceptions adjusting as he raced along the ceiling on all fours, darting around long broken light fixtures and exposed pipes. It stank in there…of age, damp, squalor and decades of squatters. Moldering refuse decayed in every room, rendering the air thick and nearly unbreathable. He didn't have time to be appalled…to feel for those forced to dwell in such destitution. Someone was about to die.

"Nightcrawler." Cyclop's voice was faint and muddled by static …the reception was poor in there. Strange. The abandoned building lacked anything that would interfere with a signal. "Where are—" The team leader's message dissolved into white noise.

"I'm in." Kurt whispered. Maybe it would be heard, maybe not. The team would catch up. Wolverine was most likely just meters behind him. Logan had his remarkable senses to guide him. He was probably ahead of him and Kurt would discover his friend enjoying a victory cigar with the fight over and done with. He'd left him scouting the perimeter, but Logan had a way of showing up in the thick of the action…usually personally responsible for its cause.

Kurt darted to the shadowy refuge of the high ceiling's corner. He was in a---surgery theater? A balcony overlooked the center of the room, long benches stacked in a semi circle behind iron railing that had rusted into little more than reddish dust that blended with the ever constant condensation to drip in ruddy rivulets from the masonry to pool on the cracked tile below.

He suddenly regretted ever watching Katzchen play _Silent Hill_.

_Kurt?_ Jean's mental voice echoed in his thoughts.

_I'm fine. I've reached the surgical theater._ He sent back, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled out the hastily sketched blueprint of the asylum, squinting in the dim light as he scanned the crude drawing. The therapy room should be down the corridor.

_Ok, since the comlinks seem to be being temperamental, I'll keep you linked to me this way. _Jean's thoughts were so much louder than his own, as if someone turned the volume up. He could feel her presence in his mind like an persistent itch. It was both unsettling and comfortingly familiar at once. _God, how awful is it? A creepy condemned asylum. Watch out for zombies. _Jean added helpfull_y, If you see anything shambling, 'port first, ask questions later._

_I'm the romantic lead._ Kurt replied, tucking the sketch back into his pocket, _I'm guaranteed to live._

_You sure you aren't the plucky comic relief? And you're seriously lacking in damsels to rescue. Unless you're going to be rescuing Bobby in drag…and then I really don't want to know about it._

_If I find Bobby tied up and wearing a pinafore I promise to keep it hidden from you._ Kurt tried to force flippancy. Gott, this place was awful…and despite the almost stifling humidity, he'd caught a bone chill that set his sweat soaked fur bristling inside his uniform. Anyway, I see anything that even so much as hints at _Dawn of the Dead _and I'll be testing my theory on the possibility of teleporting all the way to Thailand.

_Belay that. I want photographic evidence for blackmailing purposes later_. _Mean Jean out._

With that, Kurt released his hold on the vaulted ceiling and flipped to a crouch on the ground. The floor splashed unpleasantly. _I'm too old for this. _Kurt winced and tried to ignore the smell of the stagnant water and Gott-Knows-What-Else. _Wait. How old am I? _

_Twenty-four._ A voice in his head chirped merrily before he could work out the mental math. _So, you're not 'too old'…Logan is way older than you._ She paused, her tone turning serious…and tinged with genuine worry. _Be careful, Kurt. They managed to get their hands on Bobby…don't underestimate them._

_I won't. I promise. If he's here, we'll get him home, Jean._ He smiled and tried to tint his mental communication with the confidence he didn't quite feel. Something was 'off' in all of this. He dragged his tri-digit hand through his hair and jogged lightly toward the door, peeking through the tiny screened window into the hallway. Looked clear. He pressed his cheek to the scratched glass…ja, both directions were empty. He eased the door open and slipped into the passageway, catching the door with his tail to gently shut it before he ventured forth.

Kurt stepped lightly, walking on the balls of his unusual feet, making his way silently down the hall. There. The therapy room. The vagrant had said he had seen an 'ice man' there. That 'they' had him. Who 'they' were was still open to debate.


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt carefully made his way around piles of debris and puddles of murky water, as silent as the asylum around him. Something was decidedly wrong. There should be some sound---the groans of an old building settling in its foundation, the scuttle of vermin…

_Anything._

Wait.

Vermin.

The elfin X-Man slipped the flashlight from his belt and clicked it on, blinking as his eyes adjusted. He let the light trace down the corridor's baseboards. Nothing. No rats darted away, no roaches fled the light—he aimed the flashlight at the ceiling above him. No spider-webs. That just made no sense at all. He could understand the exodus of squatters with this sighting of an 'ice man'…but the vermin? Kurt knelt and drew his belt knife. He scraped the blade along the floor and brought it to eye-level. Droppings. Old droppings. So rats and mice _used _to be here, but weren't any longer. He stood and crossed the room to an abandoned campsite, gingerly avoiding a broken crack pipe and a few scattered syringes. A discolored newspaper—dated three weeks ago—lay strewn about, stinking and peppered with insect droppings.

Three weeks was right on the timeline that the vagrant had said he's seen the ice man.

Bobby Drake. Someone had taken Bobby Drake. Kurt had never met the youngest of the Original Five X-Men, only seen photographs and heard stories of his exploits. Henry had waxed nostalgic about him for a few hours when the news came. Kurt was leading Excalibur when Iceman had returned home to the house that Xavier built. Excalibur disbanded only a month ago. Bobby had headed to California to help "a friend" only days before Kurt and Katzchen returned. And then Bobby was gone. Scott traveled to L.A. himself, only to come home empty handed and short tempered. Jean, as usual, tried to hold everyone together. Warren and Hank bickered almost constantly and the Professor was troubled and quiet. Gambit, on edge by the environment, had departed to Los Angelos to look 'his way' with Ororo on his heels. Kurt suspected they just wanted an excuse to escape the mounting tension of the Mansion.

Katzchen had met Bobby. She said Kurt would like him…he was funny. Aaaaand then she embarked on a long dissertation on how she and Bobby ran into each other while playing Worlds of Warcraft and how he was playing a Night Elf and she was playing a warlock and orcs and scourge and quests …and Kurt's eyes had glazed over by then. Kitty announced him as an unenlightened heathen and stalked away. Kurt, having never felt the need to main-line Red Bull to stay awake for thirty-six hours so he could stab a Pit Fiend in the face with three thousand and ninety-six of his closest online friends, had just shaken his head and returned to pirating music on Nicotine (Linux, of course, because Windows was the Mark of the Beast according to Kitty…and when he pointed out that _that _only occurred in Revelations and wasn't she Jewish, she had thrown a plushy twenty-sided die at his head).

Two weeks out of leading Excalibur and he was back on the X-Men, a team leader this time, walking through a condemned asylum looking for Iceman.

Something was wrong here. He didn't know if Bobby Drake was involved, but in his gut, Kurt _knew_ something was –bad?—about this place.

Three weeks ago, a schizophrenic alcoholic derelict had seen a man made of ice moving through these hallways. Kurt reached up and attached a small camera to the wall. He didn't know if it was Bobby, but something was going on. His hand strayed to the hilt of one of his swords as he made his way down the passageway. The flashlight flickered and dimmed. Kurt frowned. The flashlights were Hank's own creation and he'd never known one to die on him. Odd. It could be that it was just broken but still--. He glanced down at the pack at his waist. The red LED of his COM link pack was dead. Okaaaay.

Not good.

Kurt's tailed swayed in wary figure eights near his ankles as he continued on his way toward what the blueprints said was the therapy room.

Suddenly, a gust of _something_ burst down the hallway. And Kurt, startled, dropped into a crouch. His flashlight winked out. He let out a guttural string of profanity in German and shoved it back on his belt. _Was zum Teufel?_ Kurt let out his held breath slowly. It clouded before his eyes. The temperature had dropped at least forty degrees in less than a minute. Kurt whipped around. Even without the flashlight, Kurt's Night Vision allowed him to see that something was lacing across the walls…

Frost.

"Iceman." Kurt whispered, breaking into a sprint toward the therapy room. He jerked on the handle of the door. It was stuck. Ice spider-webbed across the glass.

_Jean? Jean, are you seeing this?_

No answer. No comforting itch that reminded you of her telepathic presence.

Kurt halted, his breath caught in his throat. Something was wrapped around his thigh. His eyes flicked down before he could teleport away. A tendril of ice was lashed around his leg.

"Bobby?" He called. "Bobby. I'm—"

Kurt gasped. Something wicked and hot and sweet and freezing flooded his veins. He cried out and then everything was white—

The floor rushed up suddenly, and then everything melted into blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

Cold.

Bitter cold that chilled the marrow in his bones and set his teeth aching. He could taste the agony of it in the back of his throat, choking back the groan that wanted to escape him. Images, sensations, violet violent _fear_, snippets of memory…sound and smell ...but chaotic and blurred.

Ow. Finally, the fog cleared a bit and Kurt was able to actually feel his body rather than just assume it was still there and mostly in one piece. He drew an aching breath and opened his eyes. His cheek was pressed to the—sensation suddenly flooded back—coldomgcoldCOLD floor. Struggling to drag himself to his knees and away from the frost dusted tile, Kurt sucked in his breath as every tendon, muscle and joint protested in dull throbbing pain. Good Gott, what the devil happened? His back felt as if it was on _fire_. Kurt idly rubbed his wrists and carefully tried to stand. Wavering slightly, Kurt pivoted on his heel and took in the room, his hand creeping up to cover his mouth…his golden eyes widening in horror.

_Kurt! Kurt, are you okay? _Jean thoughts invaded the pain hazed tangle of his mind. _What happened? Did you teleport? Where the hell did you go? _She sounded frantic and her mental voice thundered inside his skull like a freight train. White fire…Gott, the universe as _burning_…

_Endlessly._

Kurt reflexively grabbed his head and doubled over, teeth gritted in new agony. _Jean…Jean, stop!_

_God! Sorry…sorry… _Her 'voice' dropped to whisper quiet. Misery tinted her thoughts. Kurt's heart went out to her. There was little she hated more than struggling to control the Phoenix within. Power spikes echoed strong emotion for her and he could hear her frustration, feeling the shadow of the empathetic 'link' that went along with being telepathically connected with her.

_I'm okay. _Kurt soothed, bending to gather up his sword harness and computer bag. He buckled the harness to his back and winced as the leather bit through his uniform and into what felt like raw superficial wounds across his back. _How long was I out?_

_ Twenty-two minutes. Logan's looking for you…where are you? Did you find any sign of Bobby? _

_I'm not exactly sure where I am." _Kurt rubbed his arms in the chill of the room. And…jah, you could say that. He looked back up at the room, shuddering…whether it was from the chill or the hooded figures that stood around him, their faces frozen, literally, in their last moments of life.

_Jean, can you see this? _He asked, brushing his fingers along the earpiece that contained both the audio com link and the camera. He should be able to playback whatever had happened in those twenty-two minutes of oblivion…maybe find out why everything hurt so much. Perhaps he'd teleported on impulse and somehow managed to end up several feet off the floor and fell, knocking himself out. His shattered memory flared…ice tendrils winding around his thighs…tightening. Icy shock hitting his system. Gott, _something _had happened to him. Something had happened to _them_.

_Your visual link is down. You just disappeared. _

_Damn. Look through my eyes. You have to see this… _Kurt's mental voice trailed off as his flashlight, laying on the floor next to his foot, suddenly flared to life. He knelt and picked it up, the light settling on the face of a woman…her features contorted in terror…or agony. Maybe both. The cowl of her robe was thrown back, her hands raised…fingers clawing at whatever doom she faced. Her dead eyes seemed illuminated from within. A flash of blue light—Kurt stumbled back---and the frost became dust. Like ash in rain, she melted away. They all did. Disintegrating before his astonished eyes. And then they were gone. Kurt stood in an empty room and not so much as a droplet of melted ice to bear testimony to what he had seen.

_I don't see anything, Kurt. What happened? _

_What the hell?_

_There were… _The scream of metal on metal sent Kurt whipping around, his swords free from their scabbards and his body dropping into a defensive stance before he even consciously acknowledged the shudder of the—barred?—steel door. Part of Kurt's mind suddenly noted the series of square lockers that made up an entire wall of the room. Long metal tables with …drains?

_The morgue._

The door was torn from its hinges and Kurt sprang forward—stopping short of bring his sword arm in a downward arc—and kicked off Wolverine's chest, flipping backward to land and sheath his swords in one fluid motion.

Logan hadn't even grunted from the aborted blow. "You ok, Elf?"

"Jah." Somehow Wolverine's appearance sucked the sinister out of the room. Kurt rubbed his wrist. Why did it hurt like that? "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Logan flicked his light closed, peering at Kurt through a circling plume of cherry scented smoke. "You look like shit." He reached out and grabbed Kurt's arm, shoving up the sleeve of his jacket. "What the fuck is _that_?"

Kurt glanced down. His wrist was raw and angry looking. Ligature marks? Kurt blinked. "I was only unconscious for—"

"Twenty minutes. Come on," Logan looked around warily. "We're getting out of here. This place smells…wrong."

"Wait." Kurt laid his hand on Wolverine's shoulder. "There were people here. Frozen. I saw them."

"Elf," Logan shrugged off Kurt's hand and gestured toward the room. "There ain't been anyone in here. Not frozen, not anything else. Just you."

Kurt frowned and shook his head, "No…they were here just a few minutes ago. They melted."

Logan sucked thoughtfully on the cigar, "Well, where are they then? Listen, someone sucker punched ya…tied you up and dragged you here and dumped you, then split. You dreamed the frozen people…your mind's fucking with you. Trust me, I wrote the fucking book on it."

There was no point in arguing with him or pointing out that he hadn't smelled the his 'assailant' . Kurt ground his teeth in frustration. "Ok, let's go."

Three hours later, Kurt was still in the Med-Lab, dressed in a paper gown as Hank dabbed at his back. The doctor clucked his tongue in concern but didn't say anything and the silence was only broken by Kurt's occasional hiss from the sting of Beast's ministrations and the rustle of paper as Scott sat nearby, flipping through the mission report. Logan lurked near-by, arms crossed and cowboy hat pulled low over his forehead.

"This timeline makes no damned sense." Scott finally said. "How could that much damage be done in twenty-two minutes?

"Well, our resident Bavarian Lothario _is _a teleporter and him accidentally shuffling off this particular plane of existence and into another for any manner of extra-dimensional hijinks is nigh on mundane for the recently displaced denizens of the Good Team Excalibur." Hank stood back and pulled his special-made latex glove from his enormous hands. "Unless he had a sudden and ill-timed involuntary nap on the floor of the asylum's morgue and was besieged by Pietro Maximoff in the middle of psychotic break and armed with—by the look of these lash marks—a bullwhip. Someone should probably ring the Avenger's and tell them to up Quicksilver's pharmaceuticals."

"You're saying he teleported to another dimension, got his ass kicked, forgot about it and teleported home?" Scott tossed the report on an empty gurney.

"It's been known to happen."

"Welcome to my world." Logan muttered from across the room.

Kurt gingerly slid from exam table, trying to ignore the throb from his mandatory tetanus shot. "Am I cleared to go?"

"Not yet." Hank made shooing motions at Scott and Logan. "Out, you two. I've doctorly machinations to do and you're under my considerable feet."

"All right. Get some rest, Kurt." Scott turned, grabbed up the report and headed out. Logan clamped his hand down Kurt's shoulder and nodded at him before heading out.

Once they were gone, Henry patted the table. "Back in the saddle, if you please. I need to check you from impish ear to elfin ankle…and all the interesting bits in between."

Kurt heaved a melodramatic sigh and hopped back onto the table.

This was going to be a long night.


	4. Chapter 4

He couldn't sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those people, their waxen dead faces, made of ice and ash, crumpling. Horror reflected in their glass-like eyes, as if they'd been staring into the bowels of Hell itself before they died.

Kurt gingerly rolled onto his stomach, the bandages pulled at his fur, the smell of the antiseptic was harsh, and every part of him was sore.

_Every_ part.

He hadn't told Hank about that. About the sting with every step, about the soreness in his thighs, about how he'd had cramps for about fifteen minutes after he'd tried to lay down. About the blood.

Maybe he was in shock.

But he wasn't…whatever he _should_ be. After something like _that_.

So, Kurt lay on his stomach in the dark, keenly aware of his body, every ache, every sting, emotionless. He studied his right wrist. He'd been doing this a long time, and it wasn't the first time he'd found himself tied up. The cuts that circled his wrists were partially healed.

Twenty-two minutes.

He started to drift off, his eyes still fixed on the missing time that was burned into his wrists, as just as he was slipping into that twilight between sleep and wakefulness, a hush fell over the room. He wasn't alone. Not being watched, just not alone. The air moved around him, above him, and it was wet. Heavy with cool humidity. Something touched him, softer than a breeze, but it felt like a kiss…everywhere at once. He watched in a sort of dreamy daze as frost laced around his wrist, gentle, cold but not biting, and then the wetness and cold brushed his back, he could feel the bandages just slid off. Again, that cold kiss, soothing…tender. The frost that dusted the fur of wrist suddenly melted, evaporating into nothing. Nothing but the wet air that Kurt inhaled sharply, filling his lungs with it, it seemed to spread through him, with every beat of his heart, soaking into his blood.

Where the frost had touched, the wounds were gone.

And the mist in the air settled over him, a cool cloud, easing the ache away from his muscles. From his thoughts.

And wrapped in the haze of water and cool air, he fell asleep.

And didn't dream at all.


	5. Chapter 5

He sat bolt upright, confused and disoriented. He was _cold_, cold and soaking wet. That made no sense. This wasn't his room, these weren't his things, he wasn't supposed to be cold, he had to…he had to…

The water. The water rushed _in_.

Kurt's eyes snapped open, and he rubbed his face with shaking hands, before sliding out of his bed. He looked back, had he been wet? He and his bedclothes were dry. Not even sweat. He shuffled into the bathroom, his tail nearly dragging behind him, weaving listlessly around his ankles. He leaned on the sink counter, staring at his reflection, and for a split second, what he saw reflected in the mirror wasn't a young man with elfin features and blue skin, but a man with pale blue eyes and blond hair. And then -- before his mind could register what he'd just seen -- it was gone.

And then he wasn't sure he'd seen it at all.

He was already in the shower when the memory of the night before came rushing back, just as the water rushed over his body. The wet air, the frost, the healing. How would he explain it to Hank? He was supposed to go down for a follow-up.

The water soaked his fur, flowing over him, his tail wrapped around him as he rose up on his toes, seeking the spray. Again, that strange surreal Other-ness settled over him, as if the water, the steam, was solidifying, wrapping around him, tendrils of mist twined around his legs, his waist, caressing, and soothing, and wanting. His head dropped back, the moisture shifting, moving. Kurt leaned back against the tile, his forearm pressed over his face, as the wet air and the water continued to slide over his skin, penetrating his fur, brushing his lips, and then – Oh, Gott – he could feel himself, hard and leaking, pressed against his lower belly. One hand reached up and gripped the showerhead, as the thick air lapped at him, tendrils of mist licking at him. He inhaled the mist and came in trembling gasps. His knees nearly buckling, as a sudden flash of memory exploded in his mind's eye.

Chains. The sound of chain links clinking together. Eyes as pale as a wolf's. The smell of leather. The smell of sweat.

Pain.

A hand balled in his hair, words hissed in his ear.

Pleasure.

Possession.

Kurt's eyes opened.

The asylum. He needed to go back. They'd taken him there. He could feel it. And he had twenty-two minutes of days worth of injuries to account for.

Who were those hooded people, what had happened to Iceman there, what was the connection, and what the devil was happening to _him_?

Kurt knew that somehow, it was Bobby who'd healed his injuries. That Bobby was somehow with him.

That he'd been somewhere else.

And he needed to know where, and what happened there.

It was just before dawn, so Kurt dressed and packed up his gear. He had to do this alone.

But he wasn't alone. There was something else there. In his blood, on the back of his tongue, in the scent of his fur – he was changed. Changed by whatever had happened in those lost twenty-two minutes.


	6. Chapter 6

He had that song stuck in his head again. Which was a stark contrast to what was going on around him. It was oddly comforting, he supposed. And rendered the situation a little ridiculous. A Bare Naked Ladies song playing over and over again in his head.

_Drove downtown in the rain..._

Kurt honestly couldn't remember having ever heard the song before. That particular band wasn't on his usual playlists. Weird.

But everything about this was weird.

Scott would kill him.

The building seemed different now. Stagnant. Dead.

Different.

Kurt, just as before, crept along the ceiling, heading toward where he remembered the morgue to be. This time no ice lacing the walls greeted him. Just the stale loneliness of an abandoned building and the stench of old urine and heat. 

"Bobby?" He whispered, pausing in crouch upside down next to a broken light fixture. Of course, no on answered him. The place still reeked of vagrants and vermin, but it seemed empty somehow.

The morgue was as he remembered it, and completely different.

That stupid song was still in his head.

Something caught his eyes and he bent to pick it up, a set of keys. How did he not see these before?

And then it started getting cold.


	7. Chapter 7

He stared down at the keys in his hand, they were old-fashioned and heavy, they'd rusted in place on the ring, each key was fused in place, locked in the position they'd fallen in and lain in the damp for decades.

Except one.

A single key was loose, and the rust was worn away, it looked almost polished. And on the scalloped decorative end of the key, was a very vivid fingerprint. The old legend of Bluebeard's wife, with her bloodstained key that no amount of scrubbing could polish away, came to the fore of his already too active imagination. Good thing this fingerprint didn't look in anyway bloody, but that didn't stop him from slipping his hand inside his coat and pulling out his rosary, running this thumb along the beads as he utter a quick prayer to the Blessed Mother that there was nothing else similar between that story and the strange keys he held in his gloved hand.

Kurt deliberately ignored how cold it was getting.

It seemed that he shouldn't feel it, and there was a low buzz of confusion and unintelligible mutterings behind his own thoughts.

He tried to push that other, alien, stream of consciousness away, he needed to concentrate, he could deal with his new exciting mental illness later.

Ok, he had a key, now he needed a lock.

Kurt pivoted on his heel in a slow circle, as if the keys were a dousing rod and would somehow magically led him to the right door.

_Everything is a door_

Blink.

Gott, he _was_ going crazy.

Well, he could start with the Scene of the Crime; the morgue. At least he knew where that was, so he could teleport there and get away from the cold that seemed to be leeching every bit of warmth from his bones.

_Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz_

Kurt hit the ground hard, his wind knocked from his chest, as pain wracked his body, curling into the fetal position as he tried to gasp air back into his lungs, his nose gushing blood.

Something went_horribly_ wrong.

Finally, he could breathe and rolled onto his back to wait out the fading pain and his nosebleed -- which was slowing, thank Gott -- to stop.

_This?_ Was _not_ the morgue.

Wherever he was, it was dark and _cold_. He could see his breath wisp up toward the tree above him.

Something dark swayed from a branch above, spinning in the bone-chilling wind that pushed the clouds away from the two moons that hung low in the night sky, their silvery light illuminating the withered face of the poor creature that swung from its broken neck. Its face was only partially pecked clean of flesh by whatever carrion eating birds lives in this place. Kurt's eyes fixed on one particular feature that clenched at his gut, the doomed soul had one perfect pointed ear.

_Not the morgue, eh? _That odd 'otherness' began to chuckle softly in the back of his aching head.

Kurt crawled away as far as his aching muscles would let him, horror shaking him more than the cold.

His bleeding nose and the cold had shielded him from the stink, but now he could start to smell it, the death. And looking back over his shoulder, that one body wasn't the only one that was hung from that tree. All slender and similar in height -- except for what were obviously children.

He dug his fingers into the nearly frozen ground as he wretched, and knelt hunched there, calming himself as he spit and wiped at his mouth.

He had to find shelter, the wind was getting colder and he wanted to put as much distance between himself and that tree as possible. There was no way he could teleport, not until he recovered... and that could take days.

So he made himself walk.

And forced himself to not reached into his coat pocket and throw the keys as far as he could. They felt suddenly heavy...and tainted. Like bad memories clung to the keys along with the rust. But, he stopped himself, aversion aside, he might need them to get back.

This wasn't the first time he'd found himself in a different world, but somehow this place seemed much more malevolent than any of the other 'Earths' he'd visited during his adventures with Excalibur. And, and of course, the extra moon rather suggested that any 'Earth' information would be a bit irrelevant here.

Wherever 'here'_was_.

Keep moving. He had to keep his blood moving and warm, his coat might as well been made of tissue paper for all the protection it provided against the biting cold.

There was a road, unpaved but looked well traveled, and he kept to the tree-line, counting on his ability to blend with the shadows as he kept moving.

An hour passed and he saw a glow in the distance, deeper into the woods. A camp-fire. He slipped toward it, if the camper was asleep, he could do a little good old fashioned thieving, at the very least, he could steal a little bit of fire to make his own camp with, wait out the night and face this new disaster in the morning.

There was no sleeping for him this night, not with the images of that killing tree still fresh in his mind.

He crept as close as he dared to the camp -- and silently cursed -- a cloaked and hooded figure sat upright against a pack, running a whetstone along the blade of a wicked looking sword, strands of white or blond hair escaped the hood when the wind blew.

And -- of course -- there was a horse. Kurt froze, but the animal was already agitated, dashing Kurt's hopes of trying his hand at being a horse thief.

There was something about the figure that sat so casually sharpening his sword.

_He knows I'm standing here..._

Kurt wondered if he had the strength to even outrun him...


	8. Chapter 8

He didn't realize how hard he was gripping the key ring until he felt it biting into his palm painfully, or that he was holding his breath until he lungs began to ache.

The keys in his hand jingled softly as he loosened his grip. His head snapped down, startled, his eyes widening, forgetting the man and his campfire for a few seconds.

_Was zum Teufel?_

The keys, all twelve of them, no longer were frozen with years of rust. They looked brand new, glimmering silver in the muted light of the moons that had retreated once again to the cover of the wintery clouds, and each key was a tiny work of art, etched with symbols and filigree.

He couldn't find the key that had disturbed him so, with its fingerprint.

There had been thirteen keys.

Now, only twelve.

"You might as well come out." A hollow voice snapped his attention back to the fire, and the man who still sat with his back to the shadows that Kurt hid in, "It's just going to get colder."

The man continued to sharpen his sword, "And there's worse things than the cold in the dark tonight."

He tried to think of some reply, something to excuse the way he looked before revealing himself. But after seeing what hung from that tree, he doubted any explanation would opened a closed mind in this dreadful place. He was wearing only his uniform, a simple sleeveless microfiber like top and leather pants ensemble that did nothing to hide his appearance, and his coat did little to keep the wind off him. It had been a warm day, he was lucky he was even wearing boots.

He had his swords, though he doubted he had the strength to use them in any useful way, and he'd somehow managed to leave his bag behind.

He didn't even have his image inducer.

But it was accept this man's offer, or die in the cold.

Or worse.

Kurt -- very carefully and poised to run if need be -- stepped into the light of the campfire.

"Thank you." Was all of could think of to say, as he turned toward the man, who's face was mostly hidden by his hood and the shadows cast off from the flickering fire, what he did see was fair, smooth pale skin and a high cheekbone, and his eyes.

Gott, his _eyes_.

They were pale as the moonlight that was now hidden again by the black clouds, an ice-blue ringed with black...like a wolf's. And there was something haunting and _old_, despite the smoothness of the cheek that Kurt could barely make out, about them.

And something familiar.

Kurt sank into a crouch, holding his hands toward the fire to warm them, his golden eyes never leaving the man's wolfen ones. "Thank you." He said again. "I suppose I don't need to explain that I'm a bit lost..."

"No, no you don't." There was grim amusement in the man's voice, "You're very far from home, aren't you, Kurt?"

"You know my name?" Kurt turned away from the fire, just as the man reached up and lowered the cowl of his cloak.

_Gott..._

"Of course...you're an X-Man." Bobby Drake – or a man who once used that name – dragged a calloused hand through his long hair. "I've been gone for a very long time, but I remember you. Never met you before, but I know you."

Kurt merely gaped.

"I'm the one who summoned you."


	9. Chapter 9

_Summoned me?_

Kurt straightened, standing with his arms crossed tight across his chest, warding off the cold he was too shocked to feel, Bobby – or some version of him – looked up at him, eyebrow raised with a mirthless smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He appeared to be the same age he was when he went missing, twenty-five...twenty-six? But there was nothing young about those eyes that locked to his own. They were much paler than the photos he'd seen of Bobby, as was his hair, not lightened from age...but the white-blond usually only seen on small children. Tow-headed.

There was no trace of the smart mouthed class-clown, the youngest of the original X-Men. The one who'd been described as immature, and never wanting to grow up.

The face was the same, but the mind inside? What was looking out of those eerie eyes was nothing like the Iceman that had been described to him, that he knew on periphery, mostly from Jean or Rogue's "family stories".

_How long had he been here?_

Since he hadn't demanded an explanation, Robert Drake went on as if he'd never mentioned being the one to summon the elfin mutant from another world, "You look cold. Here." He dug into a leather pack, pulling out a black bundle and tossing it to Kurt. "It's enspelled, and will keep you warm. Even here."

Kurt unfold the the woolen cloak and draped it around his shoulders, and just as Bobby promised, warmth seemed to wrap around him, and he couldn't feel the wind any longer.

"Thank you." He managed to say, his lips feeling oddly numb.

"You don't remember at all." Bobby said slowly, settling back against his back and sheathing the sword. He looked both pleased and ...rueful? "For the best. How's Jean? Hank?"

"Worried. Everyone is...what did you mean by 'I don't remember'?" Kurt drew the hood of the cloak up and was startled when this hardened version of Iceman reached out suddenly and yanked the cowl back down.

_Was?_

"Don't. I want to see your face." Then just as quickly, the small smile was back, "You were here once before, you came in through the Gate. But I sent you back. You didn't have the keys...and I need you to hold onto something for me."

Kurt nodded, "I was missing for twenty-two minutes. There were people, hood and in a circle. They... turned to ash."

"Dust." Bobby corrected, "They turned to dust. Freeze-dried." he gave a harsh laugh, "They were the elite here, a coven of magic users of a great nation – a _human_ nation – who sought to summon a creature of great power to harness and use in their little wars. What they got," He tilted his head and smiled unpleasantly, "Was me...and then they died. Oops."

"What happened?" Kurt's eyes narrowed, his gut clenching, "What did you do?"

"Oh, it wasn't me. It was some sort of magical backlash. I'm not exactly sure what happened. It hurt, felt like my powers were out of control and ripping me apart at the same time...and then it just released. This terrible power, and they died, and as they did, their souls started to unravel..like cheap sweater." Bobby's eyes were distant, as if he was looking into the past, watching the scene over again. "Their knowledge, their powers had no place to go. So they went through me, and some things stayed."

Kurt recoiled in horror, and reached out without thinking to grip the man's arm. Bobby caught his wrist, moving viper fast, and jerked Kurt toward him, looking down at his tri-digit hand, studying his palm.

"They were trying to summon a dragon." He looked up, eyes glowing with an intense blue light, "Jean's not the only one. The Professor never told me that I was one, too."

"One, too?"

"An Omega. Here, the call me The Dragon." Bobby let go of Kurt's hand, who tucked it against his chest. "He should have told me."

"How long have you been here?" Kurt whispered, shocked.

"Oh, eighty-five years or so...give or take a year. I'm not exactly sure." He reached out and cupped Kurt's cheek, "You still have it, I can feel it...see it in your eyes. I could feel you Over There, Beyond the Gate. You took care of it well, until I needed it back."

"What...did I have?"

Bobby leaned in, his face only inches from Kurt's, "My soul, Kurt. I hid it in you, a piece of my soul."


	10. Chapter 10

_Chains..._

_The coppery sanguine taste of his own blood mixing with the saline taste of his sweat, and tears._

_Pleading._

_The shackles bit into the flesh of his wrists, raw...a fresh pain._

_Eyes like a wolf..._

Kurt blinked away the sudden memory of his dream, "Your soul?" He echoed, incredulously, refusing to accept the fact that it made sense. Why the he seemed to suffer from _Jamais vu –_ the opposite of _Deja vu -- w_here the familiar seems unfamiliar and strange, instead of that 'I've done this before' feeling.

He cleared his throat, "Was I carrying your _Ka_? How very _Search for Spock_ of me."

Bobby – who hadn't moved his hand from Kurt's cheek – snorted and leaned even closer, "Such a shame you don't remember, but you do, don't you? In dreams, maybe? When you're touching water?"

Before Kurt could answer, Bobby went on, "I'd been here for decades when you showed up, and I had no idea who I was. I had the memories and powers of a dozen archmages, but none of my own...until you."

_This is insane._

Kurt tried to focus, tried to push away all the confusion and fixed his pupiless stare on Bobby, "When I'm recovered, I can try and teleport to Limbo, my sister can--"

"Do nothing." Bobby snapped, "Limbo doesn't touch here."

"If I can concentrate...I can sometimes teleport dimensionally by smell." Kurt winced as Bobby's grip on his cheek grew nearly painful. "Bobby, I can try and take you home."

Bobby let go of him and leaned back, laughing, "Home? I remember what I was there." Then he pressed forward, pushing Kurt onto his back and leaning over him, "I didn't remember until you came. I did such terrible things to you. Do you remember?"

Kurt shook his head, eyes widening as Robert Drake – nothing like the Bobby Drake he'd heard so much about – hovered over him, lowered himself down and whispered, "You made me remember...and I punished you for it. Look, you're not even fighting me now...the 'mighty' Nightcrawler."

Kurt's lips moved, but no sound escaped his mouth. Bobby moved and pinned his arms above his head, and Kurt tried to tell himself it was because he was still weak from his teleportation accident.

"You want me to do it again, don't you?"

"Bobby, you're...not well." Kurt's voice sounded breathless even to himself, "Please..."

"I like it when you beg." Bobby said softly, "And you have something of mine." He stared down at Kurt, eyes flaring, "How should I extract it? The same way I hid it inside you? Or something a bit more...creative."


	11. Chapter 11

Bobby's grip on his wrists was like iron, and he moved like a warrior, knowing how to exactly to keep someone flat on their back, prone and helpless. The man who once wore the "X" and was called Iceman, even had Kurt's legs firmly pinned, using his greater weight and positioning of his thighs to keep the smaller mutant from kicking free.

Plus, he was still very weak from the teleportation.

He'd never met Bobby, at least that he could lucidly remember, and while he knew that he was trained in the way that all X-Men were, no one had ever bragged about the bad assery of Robert Drake's fighting skills.

It seems that in his eighty-five years of exile to this hellish world, he'd picked some up.

But, he'd never personally witnessed Iceman in battle.

And, of course, Bobby had never witnessed _him_.

The haze of madness in Bobby's eyes only barely tempered the rising rage that started to twist in his gut.

His injuries had been ...intimate.

"Bobby, please..." Kurt pleaded, his accent thickening and his tone bordering on a whimper, "Please..."

"Please? Please what? Tell me..." Bobby's lips brushed Kurt's, his blue eyes almost feral, "You think I don't know you..."

"Don't...don't..." Kurt's lips trembled and he feebly struggled beneath Bobby's weight.

"Don't what?" Bobby's smile was darkening, "Don't wha--"

Bobby gasped...just before his eyes rolled back. He collapsed in a convulsing heap on top of Kurt, who quickly rolled out from beneath him, as the taser pressed against the back of Bobby's neck rendered him unconscious.

"Don't notice my tail." Kurt said flatly, pushing himself up and holding out his hand. His spade dropped the taser into his palm, which he tucked back into the slot on his belt.

Aaand just to make sure that Bobby didn't wake up cranky and wanting to turn Kurt into a permanent icy lawn ornament, he opened up his small med-kit and pulled out a tiny pressure syringe.

"Sorry about this." Kurt pressed the syringe against Bobby's throat. It hissed as the tranquilizer injected his content, a Hank McCoy designed drug that would keep him sedated, but relatively lucid, upon revival. And with a nice side effect of repressing mutant powers for a few hours.

"Don't worry," Kurt said, arranging Bobby's body – and handcuffing his wrists behind his back -- and resting his head on his folded camp blanket. "This isn't my first time with an Omega who's gone mad. Let's see if we can avoid some of that nastiness, ja?"

While Bobby was otherwise occupied studying the inside of his eyelid, Kurt searched through his things. He found unmarked bottles of assorted potions and elixirs, a goodly amount of gold coins, and a single key.

Kurt frowned as he turned it over in his hand. It looked as if it was craft from blue-black crystal, speckled with gold and purple flecks, it felt heavy, much heavier than it looked. But what disturbed him was the lock of hair tied to it with a black velvet ribbon.

It was a single curl of black hair. Or hair that looked black until he shined his flashlight on it, revealing the true color of very dark blue.

His hair.

He looked back over his shoulder at Bobby.

The key glowed in his palm...and he remembered.

* * *

The ice...the ice stole his senses, and when he awoke, he was somewhere else, somewhere dark.

He'd been staggering through an empty street, exhausted...lost. Water pooled in the broken cobblestone beneath dark street lamps, and the legs of his trousers were soaked as from the splashing as he ran from unseen pursuers, too tired and too disoriented to teleport.

He could only run, and then stumble along.

The wet stone bit sharply into his knees before rushing up to bruise his cheek.

And then nothing but black.

Somewhere, a fire popped and crackled.

He could feel the warmth, it was the first thing he felt, leeching the chill from his flesh, bringing back sensation, and...

His arms ached.

The soothing warmth was becoming too warm, making him sweat. He could feel the perspiration trickling down his back and legs.

His bare legs.

His arms were above him, and as awareness returned, so did the realization of being chained, nude, his toes barely touching the floor beneath him as he twisted slowly from his shackles.

Kurt's throat went dry with rising panic.

Even his tail was weighted.

He squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut, afraid of what sight would reveal. He could hear the crackling fire. Sudden visions of every movie and book he'd ever read about the Inquisition and torture involving hot irons flashed through his mind.

He steadied his breath, as soon as he could rest a bit, he could teleport away, he just needed to buy time.

Kurt opened his eyes.

A man with fine white blond hair tied back with velvet ribbon, stood with his back to Kurt, facing the fire, a crystal chalice of dark wine in his hand. The man's shirt was of fine lawn, torn in places, dampened with sweat. Only part of his face was visible, a pale cheek spotted with -- Sweet Jesu, was that blood? -- something dark and smeared, the rest of his face was hidden in the shadows cast by the fire.

Kurt flexed what muscles he could, he felt uninjured, save sore shoulders and an aching in his arms and legs from the uncomfortable position. The blood on that man's cheek, it wasn't his...was it?

* * *

"I didn't rape you." Bobby's voice, weak and dry, snapped Kurt from his reverie.

"I know." Kurt said quietly. "We were lovers."

"Yes."

"After you used your magic to read my thoughts, and remembered who you were." Kurt didn't turn around, just stood there, turning the key over and over in his hands. "But you did beat me, before."

And after. But that was ...

Different.

Kurt forced the surge of emotion away. He couldn't afford to think about anything but getting them both home right now, he'd deal with what _that_ meant later, when he had them both safely home.

He couldn't afford to think about anything but getting them both home right now.

"Yes...but, after I hid that piece of me that was _me_, inside you...and I sent you back. I've been getting worse."

Kurt finally looked back at him, face void of expression, "I don't remember everything...just, some."

"I knew you'd come back, and I've spent the past decade trying to get ready. It wasn't safe then, and I had to get you away from here, before anyone knew you were here. And I had to protect what little sanity you gave back to me." Bobby closed his eyes and swallowed hard, "I forgot about your tail."

"Everyone does." Kurt allowed a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. "Lucky for me."

"And me. I didn't want to hurt you...in that way. In _any_ way."

"We both know that's not entirely true, jah?" Kurt knelt next to Bobby and looked down at him, expression finally softening.

"Yeah, we both know."

Crack.

Kurt's head snapped up. "Someone's coming."


	12. Chapter 12

Twenty-Two Minutes.

Time across the Gate meant very little.

* * *

_He didn't lift his head, fixing his eyes on the floor – polished wood, faded from a rug that must have been rolled up and removed...couldn't have blood and sweat staining such an expensive expanse of woven wool and silk – as his captor walked in a slow circle around him. _

_His lips moved in a silent, repetitive prayer. He would switch between languages, between prayers, but his voice never rose above a barely audible hiss of breath._

_The chain-links that stretched his arms toward the ceiling became his rosary._

_It was the only sound he made when the pain came._

"_Why don't you scream, Little One?" The familiar voice masked a stranger with empty eyes. The handle of the whip touched his chin, gently lifting his face. _

_Kurt said nothing, just raised an eyebrow and studied Iceman's too pale eyes. _

_His eyes drifted down to the glint of blue light beneath the hollow of Bobby's throat. Interesting necklace, a tiny dragon carved from some blue-white crystal dangled from a leather cord. It was glowing, but very faintly...and flickering almost weakly._

_Little One._

_Diminutive pet names. Small moments of tenderness between strikes. The need to hear him scream._

_It seemed Bobby Drake – or whatever was left of him – had picked up a new hobby._

_After seeing himself as a sexually predatory –and almost foppishly flamboyant – Nazi, that rode into their world on a swastika emblazoned train powered by a giant dragon...nothing really shocked Kurt anymore. _

_But this was Bobby from his own universe, just void of memory and tainted somehow. Whatever was now residing inside Iceman's skin didn't seem to be enjoying this as much as it seemed to have anticipated._

_There was a slight fluttering of his jaw, and those eerie eyes darted to the right and up. _

_He was trying to remember something._

_Sehr Gut._

_The pain from the strikes was bearable; he'd suffered far worse. The strikes were for the aesthetic, not to permanently damage. It was a strange realization that he was regaining his strength while being tortured. He head was clearing, his senses were sharpening, and he could even feel that tickle inside his head that signaled that his ability to teleport was returning, maybe the sting of the whip helped..._

_He'd be leaving this little development out of his mission report._

_Bobby's hand replaced the whip handle, cupping Kurt's chin, "I haven't broken you so soon, have I, Little One?"_

"_Hardly." Kurt had to choose his words carefully. "Hank said you loved extreme sports, but I assumed he meant something more Shaun White and less Marquis De Sade."_

_Blink._

_There. That look to the right again, a faint flicker of confusion – _

_Bobby's hand dropped from his face and dragged down Kurt's chest and then..._

_Ouch._

"_You're hard." _

_Kurt had been happily ignoring that little detail, which was getting more difficult as Bobby's grip tightened painfully. "I have to pee, I did just wake up."_

"_Of course." The confusion was gone from Bobby's eyes, which wasn't good. Nor was that little smile that was anything but pleasant. _

_He didn't move his hand, but he did relax the grip._

_One firm stroke and Kurt knew he'd run out of time._

"_I like your necklace." He said, struggling to keep his voice level. "A dragon, ja? Drake...dragon. Very fitting, it even looks like ice, Bobby."_

_The hand stilled._

_Thank Gott._

"_What?" Bobby's eyes narrowed. _

"_Drake. Robert Drake. That's your name." Kurt said, "Or Iceman. So a little ice dragon suits you, Bobby. Is it made of ice?" Bobby's hand released Kurt and curled around the tiny dragon pendant, "I'm not familiar with the limits of your powers, my sister – Rogue – said you made her a rose made of ice, she kept it in the freezer and showed it to me when I visited. Can you make ice that doesn't melt now? That would be--"_

_Kurt squeezed his eyes shut as the wave of energy surged through him. Magic. He knew that feeling well enough to recognize it instantly, but this was – Holy Gott – like being seared through with silvery-fire, and it was anything and everything but painful._

_After an eternity of dying over and over again in that white fire, melting the ribbons of sugar that coiled tight in his belly and strangled his breath from him – finally it stopped._

"_Oh, my god." _

_For a moment, Kurt wasn't sure which one of them had spoken._

"_Kurt?" _

_He slowly opened his eyes, and was nose to nose with Bobby Drake, who was cupping his head, horror etched across his face, "Kurt, are you ok?"_

"_Can I...get back to you on that?" Kurt gasped, trying to catch his wind."What...just happened?"_

"_I used a spell to read your mind." Bobby brushed Kurt's sweat drenched hair from his forehead, his eyes wide with shock, "Holy fuck, I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't know. I swear to God I didn't remember anything, everything was just ...cold. I couldn't feel anything. I had these memories that weren't mine, from those people..." _

"_Shhh, it's ok. It's ok." Kurt soothed, "That was some spell."_

"_It...never did that before. It was a simple mind-reading incantation. It...I...I think I just relived both our lives."_

_Kurt could feel his panic, could feel his confusion and shock – resonating in the back of his head – like a tremor on a cord tied between the two of them._

_He couldn't quite tell where he ended and Bobby began. Everything was chaotic emotion, a mix of his own and Bobby's, and the aftershocks of what the spell had been like for himself. Bobby's "simple incantation" had forged something – a magical bond?_

_Wait._

_Bobby could cast spells?_

"_I know." Bobby said, as if Kurt had voiced his thought aloud, "When they summoned me, they...died, and everything that was them went into me. Their knowledge, their memories, their desires, their magic...like a sudden short in a circuit and I was the capacitor. Or ground. I don't know. I'll ask Hank."_

_BAMF!_

_Bobby jumped when Kurt suddenly vanished but spun right to where he reappeared. _

"_I really do have to pee." Kurt said, smiling...reaching out to touch Bobby's cheek, without realizing what he was doing. He didn't even question when Bobby caught his hand and nodded._

"_There's a water closet over here." Bobby led him across the room, pausing to grab the glass of wine and draining it in one gulp – Kurt would empathize – before crossing to a door and sliding it open. "It's magical, everything is. I've been here a very long time, and I've been really bored and...I'm rambling."_

"_It's ok." Kurt squeezed his fingers. Bobby managed a weak smile and left Kurt to relieve himself, walking back into the room to collapse into the chair, his head clutched in his hands._

* * *

Kurt's returning memory of his lost twenty-minutes was interfering with his need to get ready for whatever was moving through the trees. He shook his head to try and focus, his swords drawn and ready as he walked a slow circle around the edge of the camp, staring into the darkness as he followed the sound. 

"I have a great idea." Bobby struggled to sit up, "How about you un-handcuff me and we can both stalk around the fire like Logan. I know it's been awhile since I've seen the walking adrenal gland, but I think I can still manage a good grrrrrr-face."

"Can't you just ice up and slip them off?" Kurt asked, his eyes not straying from the shadow he finally caught a glimpse of.

"Funny you should mention that. I haven't been able to ice up since you left." Bobby managed to rock up to his feet and stand, "At least, not on command. It only happened when I got injured or was about to meet some grisly demise. You know how inconvenient that is?"

Kurt grimaced, "The keys are on my belt...whatever or whoever it is out there, they're not approaching, just watching, circling."

Bobby backed up against Kurt and fumbled at his belt pouches. "What's also inconvenient is that I'm only sane-ish when you're near, but the crazy did make the time just fly by." He stopped fumbling. "Hey. Now who's forgetting your tail? A little help, please?"

"Touché ." Kurt smiled at him and sent his tail to retrieve the cuff keys, the spade delicately folding and twisting until the cuffs fell onto the dirt and Bobby was rubbing his wrists. "There. Better?"

"I'd say I'd forgotten how incredibly nimble you were with that thing." Bobby kicked up his own sword and snatched it out of the air, spinning it in his hand before stepping up to join Kurt at the treeline, "But it'd be a big fat lie. That memory kept me entertained many a lonely night—hey, are you blushing?"

"No. Shut up." Kurt cleared his throat and stared even more intently into the pitch black nothing. Which was very good at staying pitch black and being nothing. Ja, that was a whole lot of black nothingness out there.

"Youare." Bobby leaned very close, his breath tickling the fur along his neck, "Your cheeks are flushed, and look...now the tip of ears are violet."

"Bobby..."

"Kuuuuurt." Bobby sing-songed, moving even closer. "'Were' lovers, huh? That's a little past-tensey."

"It's gone." He turned to Bobby, "I didn't mean it like that, Bobby. I was – I still am – remembering those months and--"

Kurt was cut off by the crash of trees. He barely had time to look up when the largest wolf he'd ever seen – or imagined – came tearing through the trees and straight toward them.


	13. Chapter 13

Kurt automatically tried to teleport and was rewarded with a pain exploding behind his eyes and crushing his chest, and only barely was able to dive clear of the beast's attack. Hitting the ground hard, he gracelessly scrambled to one side, grunting from the cramping of his foolish attempt to 'port as he forced himself to get to his feet.

"Kurt!" Bobby shouted from somewhere on the other side of the camp.

"I'm all right!" He lied and swung to face the creature.

_Gott in Heaven..._

He'd seen many an abomination of nature, science and magic in his days as both X-Man and leader of the Excalibur, but this monstrosity seemed to be plucked from a nightmare. It was a wolf, or once was, huge beyond reason, easily as large as a horse. Its eyes were black pits of shadow that flickered with _something_ that wasn't quite a color, and wasn't quite light.

Its flesh and fur hung in rotting ruin from blackened muscle, white bone jutting through its festering meat in places, and greenish slime dripped in viscous strings from its bared fangs.

Shadow clung to it unnaturally, despite the glow of the campfire. And the shadows that were permanently part of his own aura suddenly felt wane and unclean. As if the hellish wolf was tainting the night itself.

He never wanted to cross himself so much in his entire life.

He couldn't spare the movement, but he was already speeding through his third Hail Mary as the wolf landed directly in the fire, scattering embers and casting the camp into bear complete darkness. It swung its head between the two of them, its low growl setting Kurt's blood to ice. He wanted to retch, and his vision swam as he raised his blades, shifting into a defensive stance.

Bobby yelled something, a series of nonsensical syllables that raised Kurt's fur with goose-flesh and sent a hot shiver down his spine. The campfire roared up around the wolf, the flames white and blue and so bright, Kurt instinctively brought his arms up to cover his face.

He lowered them cautiously, and blinked away tears as his light sensitive eyes stung from the assault on his retinas. The Wolf was frozen in fire. The blue flames curled up and held the monster motionless, as if caught between the ticks of the clock, the flames did not flicker, just held time place around the undead thing.

He felt a hand settle on his shoulder, "Hold still." Bobby's whispered against his ear, and cupped his cheek, turning Kurt's face toward his. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Kurt's, and exhaled.

Cold rushed into Kurt's lungs, cold unlike any he'd ever felt.

His eyes went wide as his swords fell from suddenly numb fingers...as ice began to spread like lace over his fur, frosting his skin beneath, and for one frightening moment...he was sure his heart had stopped beating, frozen in his chest.

"Breathe, Kurt."

He gasped as warm air replaced the bitter cold, and the frost melted, sinking into his fur and running in rivulets from his face and down his back beneath his uniform.

And then, the pain was gone.

Just...melted away with the ice.

Even his teleportation prickled at his mind, restored as if he'd never overtaxed himself.

Bobby just smiled and released him, "I can't ice up myself, but I still have a few tricks." He picked up Kurt's swords and pressed them into his palms, "We only have a second or so before that spell wears off, and we _have_ to kill it. Its a dread wolf, sent by _them_, and it will hunt us tirelessly, tearing through everything – and anyone -- in its path until it makes its kill."

_Them_?

No time to ask right now.

Kurt nodded, "I take it you've faced one of these befo--"

The fire roared, as did the dread wolf, and Kurt whirled toward it, vanishing in a puff of brimstone, just as it lunged. He reappeared above the monster, swords slicing through the air as he brought them down in a wide arc, twisting his body as he did so. The thing was too fast, and darted to the side with an agility that belied its monstrous size.

Everything slowed to a surreal dance, the clearing spinning around him as he 'ported in and out of existence, only barely aware of Bobby moving as well, swinging his own blade that hissed whenever it struck the beast's rotting hide.

The wolf roared, lunging and slashing at the air with its dripping maw, unable to sink tooth or claw into its prey. Kurt vaulted from a tree-branch, flipping over the thing's back, and drove both swords into its neck. He landed perched on the sword hilts that jutted from behind its massive head and -- steeling himself for the strain – teleported.

Taking the wolf's head with him.

He flung the head into the remains of the fire – just as Bobby leveled his sword at the flames, and a blast of cold ripped through the headless body of the wolf. It frozen instantly, and then turned gray.

Wind whipped through the clearing as the wolf crumbled into dust, and was carried away into the night.

Panting, Bobby jogged over to Kurt, who stood staring into the fire. The magic had destroyed the head as well...along with his swords.

"We'll get you some new ones." Bobby patted his back.

Kurt looked over at him and laughed, "Better my swords be consumed by magic than me consumed by..._that,_ Ja"

"Ja...Come on." Bobby took his arm and steered him toward the trees, "Let's go catch my horse and get the hell away from here."

"Where will we go?"

"Someplace safe."


	14. Chapter 14

Someplace safe.

He hoped someplace safe was near-by.

Kurt had forgotten how incredibly uncomfortable – no – _painful_ horseback riding could be. Granted, being seated behind Bobby and not having access to stirrups to lift his weight off the saddle made each mile seem five times longer. And then his poor _thighs._

Ach, at least bemoaning his equine-impaired lot in life was a fine distraction from the grim reality – and utter confusion – that being back _here_ was.

His memories from this place were in bits and pieces. A scent...an image...the taste of salt; be it tears, sweat, his own blood or something else, it was all sensation out of context.

Pain.

He squeezed his eyes shut as they rode in silence, the only sound the tattoo of the horse's hoof beats and the wind, forcing his mind to fit together the pieces, plucking at scraps of memory like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Was this how Wolverine felt?

It bordered on a kind of madness, as he tried to dredge what was true from imagined.

"I still love you."

Bobby's quiet admission cut through the silence and his own internal struggle like an ice shard, making him aware of the cold that bit as his cheeks, the feel of Bobby's back against him, and the knot in his stomach that wanted desperately to unravel.

And then, it happened, the pieces fell into place.

He'd never really known Bobby Drake, only second-hand accounts of a prankster who never quite outgrew being the youngest of the X-Men, but he'd never really given Iceman more than a glancing thought. He wasn't part of Kurt's world. Bobby was a face in a scrapbook, a name that more often than not was a punchline.

So, when he fell into this dark world, he had no preconceived image of who he was, and how he should act.

But, he did know that something had changed him, something profound. The man he grew to know – and _love_ – bore scant resemblance to the Bobby he'd heard about. Decades of exile and memory loss would do that to a man, when all Bobby had was the stripped memories of a dozen wizards, and none of them were anything resembling good.

But when Kurt had shown up, drawn in by the magic that was burned into that morgue..and that place in between this world and their own, Bobby's spell had forge a bond.

And that bond grew.

While Kurt healed from his journey, they had talked, getting to know each other over the span of several weeks. Bobby retained a shadow of his old self, quick with a joke, or a sudden burst of playfulness...and he made Kurt laugh.

Despite the insanity of the place they were locked in, he made him _laugh_.

At himself, at Bobby, at their situation.

That friendship became something more, something new...and then something darker.

Such a private thing. Pain. Intimate and cleansing.

Kurt had always craved the edge, and teleporting had dulled that once so addicting thrill. Flying unbidden through the air, no net, would he slip this time? Would someone catch him before he fell?

Bobby's isolation and empty soul had given him a taste for cruelty, maybe it had always been there, but it didn't vanish when his memories returned.

Twenty-two minutes?

_Two years._

The mystery of his injuries was revealed in a slow remembrance that twisted that bundle of emotion in his gut in a sweet ache.

And finally, the knot gave. Kurt sighed, exhaling hard into the cold, and wrapped his arms tighter around Bobby, brushing his lips against his ear, "I still love you, too."

Bobby shuddered and markedly relaxed, as if he'd been holding his breath for hours.

And on they rode.

The horse left the cover of the wood to gallop on a hard-packed road. Kurt nestled deeper into his cowl as they sped through a small hamlet, and then again into the forest, turning onto a smaller, less traveled road.

"We're here."

Kurt drew back the enchanted wool so he could see. Bobby was walking the horse past the ruin of an iron gate, through an overgrown courtyard. The moons outlined a huge manor that was being rapidly reclaimed by the forest around it.

"Someplace safe?" Kurt slide down from the horse, surprised that his legs bore his weight after all the abuse of the previous several hours.

"Trust me." Bobby smiled and dismounted, but instead of leading the horse toward the stable – as Kurt expected – he muttered a string of discordant sounding syllables. With a soft neigh, the horse vanished, and Bobby stooped to pick up a tiny figurine of a horse mid-stride. He winked at Kurt and tucked the little horse into his coat pocket and reached for Kurt's hand, casting a wary look back at the woods they'd just ridden through.

Kurt let Bobby lead him up the broken and weed covered stairs, expression dubious as Iceman pulled a large iron key from his pocket and turned what should be a rusted beyond use lock. The door opened with a grinding _clunk!_

"Welcome home." Bobby said and pushed it open, pulling Kurt through and shutting the heavy door behind them. He whispered something Kurt didn't quite catch and the hall lit up.

"My..."

"Gott?" Bobby finished as Kurt took in the perfectly beautiful furnishings, everything clean and shining as if brand new.

"Jah...and a few Saints and the Blessed Virgin, too." Kurt turned around, "How did you do this?"

"Magic." Bobby cocked his head and laughed, "I'm surprised at you, the son of a sorceress even."

Kurt smiled and impulsively reached up to cup Bobby cheek, whose face softened with an emotion that Kurt finally allowed himself to recognize. Bobby covered Kurt's hand with his own, "You're exhausted, I can see it in your face. I am, too." He traced the line of Kurt's jaw, leaning into to press a soft kiss against his lips. "And you're _freezing_. The fires are all stoked, let's go to bed."


End file.
